


Stillness In Death

by stravaganza



Series: Coping Mechanism [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: "you're going to suffer but you'll be happy about it", Angst, Car Accident, Coping, Deception, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Funeral, Grief/Mourning, Happy Ending, I hope, M/M, Mentions of Death, Mentions of drugs, Non-Linear Narrative, Papa Greg, Promise, Scheeming Mycroft, Villain Mary, but trust me, loss of a loved one, lots of sadness, mention of child death/loss of a child, tagging more would be spoiler
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-05
Updated: 2016-08-05
Packaged: 2018-07-29 14:47:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7688566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stravaganza/pseuds/stravaganza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"Depression wasn't a motivator. If anything, it was the opposite. Sherlock felt like his world had stopped, and nothing could ever make it start spinning again. Not if John wasn't in it, anyway."</i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Sherlock has never been good at coping with death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stillness In Death

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a completely different story. It was supposed to have junkie!Sherlock and a more detailed plot, but then the trailer came out and I told myself we'll get lots of that in Series 4.
> 
> I wrote this last weekend at the sea, on my mobile, so it was easier to make it into a sort of stream of consciousness.  
> (This also means there may be tons of errors, by the way. Let me know if you spot any, as this was unbeta'd!)  
> Hopefully I've tagged everything yet managed not to spoil anything...  
> (Again, let me know if you think there's something I should add or change from the tags!)
> 
> The narrative is non-linear, but all events take place starting from February (my calculations being that Mary and John got married in May, and that she was around 7 months pregnant when Sherlock shot Magnussen, making her due date sometime in February).
> 
> Well then... Enjoy! And, sorry about this...
> 
> UPDATE: Chapter 2 will be posted as a separate story!

I.

Days seemed to pass in an endless drone, each identical to the previous, unchanged to Sherlock's mind.

Sometimes he did perceive some differences: Mycroft would occasionally come to visit, but mostly Lestrade was the one to do so; Mrs Hudson would put oats in her cookies, rather than raisins, but she never forwent the chocolate chips; sometimes Molly would text him, trying to lure him out of the flat, but most times she didn't, discouraged by his unresponsiveness.

They were concerned about his health, and that was understandable, but they shouldn't have bothered. He was not fine, but it was boredom that brought him to drugs like a moth to its addictive flame: this time there was no need for cocaine or even opium, for he didn't look forward to the night terrors each dosage would bring, nor he looked forward to the prospect of taking dose after dose after dose until it was all over.

He had promised, after all, and even if he hadn't, his lethargy would prevent him from doing anything of the sort.

Depression wasn't a motivator. If anything, it was the opposite. Sherlock felt like his world had stopped, and nothing could ever make it start spinning again. Not if John wasn't in it, anyway.

II.

Mary was an almost constant presence by his side, but Sherlock didn't always know whether she was real or not.

Most times, he supposed she wasn't. She would hover just at the corner of his eye, but whenever Sherlock turned around to regard her, she would be wearing the dress from the night John had proposed to her. Other times, when she was the most real, she would be standing by the fireplace, looking at John's empty armchair, not daring to sit: the one time she had tried, Sherlock had snarled wordlessly at her, and Mary had showed her hands in a sign of acquiescence, as one would to soothe a feral beast.

She had a whole flat that was full of John - she had his clothes, his books, his taste in furniture and his favourite brands in her cupboards, she even had a bellyful of him - while Sherlock felt as if Baker Street was bereft. Ever since his faked death, there had been a vacancy of John, and now it felt as if the chair was all Sherlock had left of his companion of many adventures.

He didn't know what Mary wanted. They didn't talk, not that Sherlock had any desire to. She didn't strike him as the grief-stricken widow. If anything, she was a vengeful spirit of spite and contempt. She was a ghastly presence, pale and gaunt despite the roundness of her belly, now approaching her due date. She was ending the last trimester when...

Sherlock wished he could blame her for everything, but he couldn't. Not this time. Fate was the one to blame, but Sherlock found he even lacked the strength to do that. He could barely move from his bed to the couch and back, his daily chore to show his continued existence.

He didn't care to pretend he was fine, even before Mary's cold, spider's eyes.

III.

"Have you been out at all?" Lestrade asked, and the words echoed through Sherlock's mind.

How often the good DI's concern for him had brought those very words to his lips? He remembered him as a young sergeant, hair dark and eyes still shining despite his concern for the strange addict he had saved from OD'ing in an alley.

He remembered him less smiling, greyer, staring from the door as he visited from time to time between one case and the other.

He wouldn't need to remember him how he was then, because that's how it was going to be from now to the end of their days - or, more realistically, the end of their tiring acquaintance, when Greg would realise he wasn't worth all this effort.

He wouldn't need to remember the lines between his eyebrows, the bags under his concerned eyes, the grim set of his mouth as he posed questions he knew the answer to.

Have you been out? Have you eaten? Have you slept? When did you last shower? I can get take away? I could find you a case?

Useless. All of it. Sherlock always meant to tell him as much, but his tongue felt leaden in his mouth and his lips felt numb.

Keeping his eyes opened was a dreadful task, so Sherlock didn't bother much with it.

He couldn't stand to see his friend's worried expression, the running of hands through spiking hair and the sighs of exasperation.

"You can't stay here forever," Greg would say, and Sherlock wouldn't reply.

Sherlock didn't speak, but he knew that. He would have to be moved to his grave at some point.

IV.

John's funeral was a small affair. Like the man itself it was quiet and unassuming, not at all a remarkable thing, except it was a monumental change in the axis of Sherlock's world, much like meeting John had been.

Harry Watson wasn't there. She hadn't showed up at John's wedding, so why would his funeral be any different? Maybe she just couldn't bear with that sort of thing. Sherlock understood her. He just hoped she would be strong and not give back into old habits.

Mike Stamford came by, briefly, between shifts at work. His eyes were glassy behind his spectacles, and he couldn't seem to stop sniffling.

Greg attended, but the man couldn't seem to bear to look at John's coffin. It looked even smaller than the man was, which was ridiculous. John wasn't that short. Just on the short side for a man. Sherlock had found his height to be most perfect.

Mary stood by the grave as the coffin was lowered in, a ghost in black with red roses in her hands. She tossed them in with the casket, saying nothing. Sherlock understood. She was an assassin, but her feelings for John had been genuine. The grief they felt now was probably the same.

He could see by her sharp glares and the hard set of her jaw that she wished she could blame Sherlock as much as Sherlock wished he could blame Mary for this.

But they couldn't. They couldn't blame anyone, and so they didn't speak.

V.

"I thought perhaps this would bring you some form of... Comfort," Mycroft said uneasily, stiffly perched at the very edge of Sherlock's chair, as if actually sitting in it would taint his life with his brother's foul disposition.

His hands were wrapped around the handle of his umbrella, on which he leaned, because he was at risk of falling face first into the rug if he didn't seat himself properly.

But Sherlock was too busy to concern himself with his brother's endeavours. For once he wasn't lying like a dead man on the couch, but sitting up.

He was sitting up, eyes so focused on what he held in his hands that his head ached with the intensity, but he couldn't bring himself to care.

"Where did you find this?" he croaked, and Mycroft didn't reply.

He didn't need to.

Even without wanting it, his brain spread before his mind's eye all the clues that indicated John had the small notebook on his person when he had died.

Sherlock's heart felt so tight in his chest he thought he would die from it. He had given John that notebook on their first Christmas together. It was a thick leather bound journal, pocket sized, and it had almost been meant as a joke. The gib had been about John acting so much as Sherlock's official biographer he might as well take notes as they went on about their daily lives. But Sherlock had had it custom made, with high quality paper and golden lettering on the cover reading 'John H. Watson'. It was a half joke, but he did want to show John that he mattered.

He thought the doctor had put it in a drawer and forgotten about it, as people usually do with these things. The following Christmas he had gotten him a pen, and he often saw him using it at work or to take notes on his tattered notebooks on crime scenes.

Now he found that very pen clipped to the front of the journal, the pages slightly yellow and thicker with use.

John used the notebook. He used it so much he always kept it on his person, and Sherlock hadn't noticed.

The detective stroked the ruined cover reverently, the scratches on the leather speaking of glass and gravel, the heavy paper smelling of smoke and copper.

He tuned Mycroft out completely, and instead curled up on the couch once more, around the journal, as if doing so could shield him from the world.

Sherlock didn't know when Mycroft had left, but he noticed it was night when he realised he couldn't read the gold letters of John's name anymore.

VI.

He had picked the gravestone himself. It was bone white, marble, with gold letters in the same font John had picked for him when he was 'dead'. He had secretly liked that slab of rock, if nothing else because it showed John's devotion to him and how much he knew his tastes, and it also met all of Sherlock's elegance standards.

On the other hand, Sherlock had opted to ignore John's tastes. They couldn't have an ugly, knitted tombstone, so he decided to show, even in his death, that John had been his polar opposite, yet complementary to him in a way nobody else ever was.

After the funeral, after everyone else had gone home, Sherlock had stared at the cold marble and wept.

It was late in the evening when Lestrade came to wrap him in his jacket, leading the frail man away from the cemetery.

Sherlock never returned. He didn't find comfort in knowing John's body was there, and he didn't think bringing flowers would make anyone happy but their vendors.

VII.

"You have to go out. You have to at least say something!" Lestrade said, as exasperated and restless with worry as he'd ever be.

He had never seen Sherlock this low, and even without drugs involved, he was sure the man was going to waste away with grief.

"Listen to me. You don't have to come and solve crimes, but it's been three months. John would hate to see you like this, knowing he's done this to you," the DI said, waving an accusatory finger in the air in Sherlock's general direction.

But the man was unresponsive. There was nothing in the world that could appeal to him anymore. Cases, drugs, not even his music. He spent hours making up songs for John in his head - love ballads that spoke of loss and mourning - but the mere thought of getting his violin to play them out, or even a pen to write them down, was exhausting.

He laid on his couch, John's notebook clasped tightly in his hands, over his heart, and stared at the ceiling unblinkingly. Moisture would occasionally gather in his eyes, and if Greg didn't think Sherlock had ran out of tears, he would think he was crying.

It was a wonder the man had survived like this. Greg supposed it was lucky his body was used to working with little to no fuel, and his inactivity made his energy consumption even lower.

"I know it seems like tragedies keep piling up, but... You've got to react. You've got to leave your life for him!" He sounded firmer than he meant to, but he couldn't help it.

In the end, surprisingly, Sherlock spoke. Without turning his head, he asked, "Did you say these things to him as well, when I was gone?"

Greg swallowed thickly.

"Yeah, and I had hoped I'd never had to do this again after your small... Miracle."

"Did they work? Did he listen to you?"

Greg swallowed again. Yes, he wanted to say, he did. Got a job, got a wife, didn't he? But he knew that wouldn't help now, and when Sherlock turned his head to look lifelessly at him, Greg couldn't meet his eye.

VIII.

Stillborn.

The baby had been stillborn.

There was nothing left of John Watson in the world, and Sherlock was beyond himself with grief. He was wrecked with sudden attacks and panicked fits that left him curling on the floor and struggling for breath, his sobs so strong they left him breathless for minutes at a time.

John Watson was dead and there was not going to be a blond girl with his eyes and his nose, with her mother's dimples and angelic disposition. There was no Watson for Sherlock to love.

Mycroft had reported that, according to her physician, Mary's body had reacted to the shock of John's death, fatally affecting the baby.

There was no funeral. There were no words. Just a small grave marked Johanne Watson.

Mary vanished.

IX.

A fire. A car crash, asphalt made slippery by nightly rain, a petrol carrying truck losing control and capsizing on the empty motorway, empty but for one car.

John was returning from a work conference, eager to be back in his London. He had chosen to drive despite the time, despite the weather, despite everything.

People had called it destiny. Cruel fate. Divine design. Bad luck.

Sherlock didn't care.

Mycroft had given him a report on the accident - wrists broken by the airbag, legs fractured by the crash, skull cracked by the impact with the window as the car spun out of control, neck snapped when the car had hit the guardrail and turned upside down, before sliding back on the slick road and colliding with the truck, which had started to burn in the meantime.

The authorities intervened as soon as they could, and while the rain helped prevent the petrol fire from spreading, they were well too late to save John, or his remains.

They had to test his DNA and check his teeth to make sure it was him, his face and body charred beyond recognition.

Sherlock wished he could do something with himself. Feel angry at the deceased truck driver, for instance. Instead he felt useless and empty.

X.

Sherlock couldn't stop reading John's journal. It was full of the man's thoughts, and not just drafts for stories he would write about their cases.

It was full of memories and thoughts and sensations.

It spoke of the thrill John felt on the trail of assassins and robbers. It told the way John had loved the sun on their brief investigation of a French counterfeiter in Normandy. It recalled what John had thought during Sherlock's absence. It recounted how John had felt about him.

There were sketches in there, too. Small doodles of seemingly random things. A bulldog, a hive, a stethoscope and a rifle, a magnifying glass and a cup of tea. A drawing of Sherlock wearing his deerstalker.

John wasn't a talented artist, but he clearly had experience with anatomical drawings. Sherlock had seen it on his old textbooks from uni, which they consulted from time to time. But the rest of it was done for fun, something John didn't always have time for, but he hadn't let that discourage him.

Sherlock loved John's drawings. Had he known the man liked that, he would have gotten him all the necessary to turn 221B into a painter's atelier.

But what Sherlock found most astonishing was the collection of thoughts John scribbled down seemingly without criteria.

"Had a nice dinner with Sherlock after catching a murderer. It was a good day."

"Today Sherlock seemed in a good mood. Played Tchaikovsky all morning. I'm happy."

"I miss Sherlock. Why did he jump? Couldn't I have helped somehow?"

"I thought I saw him today. I'm going mad."

"I wish I could cope. The world is so empty now. Why can't I move on?"

"I didn't tell him. God, why didn't I tell him?"

"He's back. I'm so angry at him. How could he?"

"I feel like the good old days are back. I'm so happy."

More often than not, Sherlock had to stop reading to avoid staining the pages with his tears.

XI.

Greg was a near constant presence at his side. He would sit and look after Sherlock as he rambled and read the left behind notebook. After Mary had shot him, John had started doubting about his wife, wondering whether it was right to forgive her, but those thoughts stopped before the Christmas episode, where he forgave her and Sherlock shot Magnussen to protect them.

Fat lot of protection he had done.

"You know you couldn't save John, or the baby, right? None of it is your fault," Greg said, his voice gruff and tired.

Had he said that out loud? Never mind. It made no difference.

"Sherlock, come on... You have to live."

It ha been three months. Greg was right. He had lost John, his daughter had been stillborn, Mary had disappeared and not even Mycroft could track her down... He had to do something. The criminal class of London must have been running amok in his inactivity.

"Perhaps in the morning," Sherlock said, taking a deep breath. "Perhaps I will ask my brother for antidepressants."

Greg seemed more relieved than Sherlock thought warranted, but he didn't have the heart to tell him so when he was smiling that relieved smile.

XII.

Things weren't the same. Not by a long shot. But they were better. A bit.

When Sherlock had left the flat for the first time in months, literally stumbling like a newborn deer, the world had been too bright. Paradoxical, since its brightest individual had been so cruelly snuffed out.

And yet Sherlock's eyes had hurt after months of stagnation hiding behind thick tapestries, his pale, paper thin skin nearly reflected the early May sun, thick curls made long by time falling over his face like a curtain.

Sherlock wrapped himself up in his coat like it could shield him from the world. He went to an hairstylist and got his hair fixed, his almost boyish beard shaved and his appearance restored.

Once he looked slightly less like a homeless vagabond, he went and bought flowers to take to John's grave, for ritual sake. He sat in front of the stone, reading the inscription he had chosen over and over.

 

'John H. Watson

20 April 1971 - 16 February 2016

Beloved husband

Loyal friend

Conductor of light'

 

Sherlock had wanted to add something about him being missed by everyone, but words had failed him. He had felt like he had taken too much liberties as it was, already.

When the air began turning chilly, Sherlock went home. He found a full dinner Mrs Hudson had made for him, and for the first time in ages he didn't let it all go to waste, eating as much of it as he could and then drinking her tea.

It was nowhere as good as John's, but it would do.

XIII.

Everyone had been surprised to see him up and about. Even Sally Donovan had been nice to him when he arrived on his first case since John's death.

She even had a few nice words for him, and as strange as it was, Sherlock found he didn't mind. She could never be John, but when she was actually listening to him and not thinking of ways of proving him wrong, she was quite the police officer.

Sherlock complimented her quietly on her work when they arrested the culprit of a robbery that had left a man gravely wounded after trying to hide from the thief a keepsake from his late wife.

Sherlock understood him all too well, and Sally had even patted him sympathetically on the back. Greg had taken him to the hospital when he asked to give the man his keepsake back in person, and after they had given the man his wife's golden wedding ring back, Greg had hugged Sherlock for a long moment.

"I'm proud of you," he said. "I know is hard, but I'm proud of you for doing all this."

Sherlock, not knowing what to say, just wrapped his arms around Greg and held him, feeling frail in the man's embrace, like he could break with too much pressure.

Greg had taken him home and treated him to a take away dinner, and Sherlock finished his portion of wontons.

XIV.

It was night when Sherlock heard it.

He had been back from a case, solved more quickly than he would have liked. Now that he was working again, every moment he spent in his own home felt like agony.

Everything, from the wallpaper on the staircase leading to the second floor - now pealing - to the second fridge John had insisted he bought for his experiments when they still lived together, everything reminded Sherlock of John.

Certainly being out didn't necessarily mean he would be distracted enough. Sometimes he would still call, "Come along, John" when leaving a crime scene, or he would hear John's voice in his head running through his deductions and still sounding confused by the end. And even when it wasn't that bad, his thoughts never strayed much from the good doctor. How was one supposed to forget the love of their life, after all?

So, at night he was home mostly out of necessity than by choice, when a case wasn't on, but he rarely slept.

When he heard a noise from the landing, he thought Mrs Hudson first. Then he thought burglar, but the steps were too heavy to be subtle.

They were the steps of a man with a broken leg, the right, in a cast, and Sherlock ran through all his acquaintances to try and understand who the intruder was. No one from his homeless network would venture uninvited into his home. That left Greg or his brother, but he had seen the former that day, and he was fine, and the latter was unlikely to ever break a leg, unless the weight of his responsibility upset his balance on a flight of stairs...

But then he smelled the man. It was a smell of sweat and blood, of unwashed skin and matted hair and antiseptic from a recent visit in the hospital.

Sherlock's heart was in his throat as he reached for John's old gun from his bedside table, drawing it out and slowly leaving the bed. He clicked the safety off and walked to the bedroom door, his steps careful but his breathing heavy.

When he entered the living room, a man was sitting on John's armchair in the dark, two crutches leaning against the armrest in much the same way a lone aluminium cane had, however briefly, once upon a time.

Sherlock found his hand was shaking and he aimed the gun away from the stranger, towards the carpet, ready to rise it again but not trusting his grip enough not to fire accidentally.

"Get up from there," he said, his voice trembling as he walked sideways towards the light switch, stumbling in the dark as he kept his eyes on the man.

When he received no reply, he raised the gun again, braced himself, and turned the lights on.

"You could've warned!" the man said, covering his eyes with a hand.

Sherlock put the safety back on and let the gun drop to the floor.

"John?"

"Turn the light off, will you? My eyes hurt. Sherlock?"

But Sherlock did not reply. He stared at John, knowing before it happened what was going to happen, yet powerless to stop it. He fell like a stone and went out like a light, out cold.

When he came to, John was kneeling next to him, a wet rug on his forehead that wasn't there before.

"Jesus, Sherlock, what do you think you're doing, fainting on me like that?" John asked, concerned, but Sherlock didn't know how to reply.

"I'm not high, why am I seeing you?" he asked, his voice shaking.

John was different. He looked more tired than Sherlock had ever seen him, his hair darker and a full beard framing his downturned mouth.

"Because... Well. Short version? Not dead," John said with only the ghost of a smile on his lips. But his eyes were cast with worry, and his hand was warm on Sherlock's cheek.

Definitely real, then.

Sherlock closed his eyes and let his head roll on the floor so he could lean in the touch.

"Why? Did you get your revenge for my stunt?" he asked, unable to conceal his bitterness as his eyes stung despite his clear need to bask into John's presence.

"God, no, Sherlock, of course... Had I known you'd be so affected, I... I did come back as soon as I could," he said, stroking damp hair away from the rag on Sherlock's forehead.

The detective closed his eyes and slowly breathed in and out.

"Your leg," he said, through his breaths, "You shouldn't be kneeling with that cast..."

"Oh, shut it, will you? You just fainted and scared the shit out of me," John said, stroking Sherlock's hair soothingly.

The detective sat up carefully, dreading the spinning of his head that was sure to come, and indeed it came, making him squeeze his eyes closed as the towel slipped down into his lap.

"Sherlock..." John started, warningly.

"No," the detective said firmly. "Explain. I need to know."

John took a deep breath through his nose and reached for his crutches to help himself stand up. Sherlock stopped him by the arm, stood slowly, and then helped John himself by putting his hands beneath his armpits.

"Thanks," the doctor said tiredly when Sherlock helped him slide back in his chair.

The detective stood in front of him, expectantly, his hands closed into fists.

"Right. Well. After the whole Magnussen thing and Moriarty's 'return'," John said, making air quotes with his fingers as he looked Sherlock in the eye, "I decided I had to be the one protecting you this time. Mycroft and I suspected Mary was the one behind it all, as I'm sure you did."

Sherlock nodded stiffly, bristling at the mention of his meddling brother.

John continued.

"Well, we came up with a plan. Mary would never suspect of me collecting information on her, sure as she was of having tricked me with her empty pen drive and her emptier lies. But then..."

"You came across some delicate information and decided to act," Sherlock said, slowly lowering himself into his own chair.

John nodded. "The whole Moriarty thing was her doing. She wanted to take control of all that was left of Moriarty's network after you destroyed it, and build it back up. I couldn't allow it, so Mycroft proposed this... I didn't think you would be so affected," John said, frowning. "I thought you'd deduce it. That it was all a rouse. That you'd see the corpse and know everything about Operation Ghost Rider."

Sherlock frowned, confused.

"Well, yours was Lazarus. I chose a fictional character who was on fire yet alive. Plus, vehicles were involved," John explained with a half smile. It quickly died down.

"I didn't think you wouldn't even want to look at the body. I'm sorry. I thought you would be your usual analytical self, but you broke down emotionally... Not even Mycroft had anticipated it. That's why we asked Greg to look after you--"

"He knew?" Sherlock asked, affronted.

John raised an eyebrow.

"Your brother, my sister, Greg and twenty five tramps," John joked. "Who were actually MI6 agents. Now you know how it feels," he pointed out. "We knew Mary would be looking at you for any sign of a ruse. Whatever her feelings were for me, her self-preservation was stronger than them."

Sherlock nodded. It was true, after all, that Mary had spent that first month as an almost always present skeleton in the metaphorical closet that was 221B.

"But if you thought I'd catch up..."

"We knew you'd still help fool her. We just... We wanted to protect you. You know how these things work. The less you knew, the better," John said, leaning forward and reaching to cover Sherlock's hand with his own.

"So you went and... Became a spy?" Sherlock asked, staring owlishly at him.

John smiled. "You're over romanticising it. No, I briefly joined the MI6 to help coordinate their operation, and did help in the showdown with Mary. I was the one she was less likely to shoot right away. And so it was. She was being deported to Japan last I saw of her," he said, sounding satisfied as he leaned back in his chair.

Sherlock blinked at him. "She lost the baby," he said, confused. "When you died--"

John looked at Sherlock with wide eyes. "What? Sherlock, no- there was no baby," he said, concerned, leaning back in. "It was another of her lies. It's how I caught her on her bullshit," John said, hurt clear in his voice. "She was pretending, to keep me with her after she shot you. I think her plan was to pretend a miscarriage a while after the wedding, but then she... She killed you, and she knew that I'd only stay with her because of the baby. So she kept pretending, but she wasn't good enough to fool me."

Sherlock felt his heart get lighter, then heavier at the same time. But he nodded. "Of course. You are a great doctor. And that... That does sound like her," he admitted. He was relieved that there had been no baby in the first place, but... "I was looking forward to meet your daughter," he confessed.

John smiled and reached for Sherlock's hand again, squeezing it when he found it.

"That's really sweet, but I'm glad I didn't have a child with her, you know?" he said.

Sherlock could only nod, smiling softly at John.

They stared at each other for a moment, and then Sherlock scrunched his nose up and said, "God, but you stink!"

John laughed and crinkled his nose as well. "Yeah, I guess you're right. Didn't exactly have time to shower after going to the hospital. I'm so glad I got married to her false name, it makes the wedding null and means my wife did not try to run me over with a motorbike."

Sherlock shook his head. "You could never live a calm life, could you?" he asked, turning his palm upwards and squeezing John's hand in turn.

"Never," John said. "And to make sure that doesn't happen, I was planning to move back in- if you'll have me."

Sherlock's reply was immediate, his smile blinding. He felt like he hadn't smiled in eons.

"Always."

XV.

They talked.

John recounted his time away, and Sherlock listened. How he had followed every one of Mary's moves, how he'd tracked her down, how livid she was when he had revealed himself. Sherlock couldn't help but feel a mix of pride and satisfaction at how John's cleverness had helped remove Mary. Underestimating him had been her downfall.

Then Sherlock told John about his own trials, how he had lived two years under cover to dismantle Moriarty's network. He hadn't had the luxury of anonymity, as Moriarty had seemed to be one step in front of him, having revealed Sherlock's face to his henchmen. Sherlock had found that out in the hard way.

Sherlock made tea and they drank it with Mrs Hudson's cookies, murmuring apologies still, and hushing each other's words of regret.

Then Sherlock helped John up and into the bathroom. He filled the tub and began helping the soldier undress, trying to hide his flushed face at the sight of the man's newly hardened body, the scar that had eluded him for so long beneath countless undershirts, the strong thighs barely concealed by his jeans.

Sherlock carefully removed them, then helped John in the water, without taking his pants off. The doctor thanked him for that concession of decency, and told the detective he could manage now, but Sherlock was adamant: he let John's casted leg stick out over the lip of the tub, put a towel and a stool beneath it so it wouldn't hang heavily, then got a chair for himself from the kitchen and helped John scrub himself in all the places that were hard for him to reach whilst sitting like that.

John washed his hair and his beard while Sherlock took care of his back and right leg, watching the water turn red with the blood of John's enemies and then brown with the filth of days of undercover work. Pride swelled once more in Sherlock's chest, and when John was clean, the detective drained the tub, averting his eyes from where John's pants were probably sticking to him, made see-through by the water.

Then, as he let the tub fill back up, he went to get John's favourite bubble bath and scented candles, retrieving a lighter they kept behind the mirror, in the medicinal cabinet, for that exact use.

He placed the candles in all the spots John usually put them, with a mathematical precision that had the doctor laughing.

"You know where I put the candles. Of course you do," he said, sounding as fond as he sounded exhausted.

"Wax stains on the tub's lip, near your feet and elbows. An easy deduction," Sherlock shrugged it off, not mentioning that he easily knew all about John and his habits. "Now you lay back and relax for a while. Holler if you need anything, I'll be in the living room, well within earshot-"

Sherlock had started to speak at his breakneck speed, and all John had to do to silence him was to put a gentle, wet hand on his bare forearm. His mouth snapped closed and he looked inquisitively at John.

"I..." the man started, then paused. His eyes were downcast, and Sherlock sat back down to listen patiently, giving John time to gather his thoughts. "You have been far more understanding than I'd hoped. Than I deserve, probably. Certainly more so than I was when our roles were reversed."

"I was away longer," Sherlock retorted quietly, his insides twisting. Was that how John had felt for two years? Of course, the doctor hadn't been in love with Sherlock, but two years... The thought of his own agony continuing for so long, with no end in sight...

"That's not the point, is it?" John said with a tight smile. "You also had it harder than me. You were tortured and beaten and spent months living underground, and..." Sherlock tensed, his fists closing over his thighs. "And when you got back I proceeded to beat you up again, when I should have hugged you. Mended you. Mycroft told me that you were still hurt when you came to the restaurant. That he'd found you while you got whipped, chained to a wall, and that your first thought was to get decent again to come see me," John murmured regretfully, his head falling back against the tiled wall behind him with a soft thud. "I'm sorry."

Sherlock scoffed, his face flushing. "Don't be. If anything, kick Mycroft's fat arse with your cast leg, so it'll hurt more, would you? As he's conveniently forgotten to tell you that he only called me back because of the terroristic threat to London. That he watched as I was beaten - literally, not figuratively, he was present - and that hadn't it been for Moran he would've kept giving me mission after mission as if I were one of his minions," Sherlock said with venom in his voice, his hands now shaking with how tight he was clenching them.

Again, John was quick to soothe him, his touch wet and gentle on his tense hands.

"I know. It might not look like it because of your stupid, petty feud, but he is sorry, you know. He never let me do anything because he didn't want me to get hurt or actually die, not for my own sake, but for yours."

Sherlock closed his eyes and took a deep breath through his nose.

"Still, there's no need to apologise. You reacted like many others would have. I wasn't expecting a tearful reunion with hugs and kisses, after all," he lied.

"Neither was I, but here it is," John said with a tired smile.

Sherlock looked at him for a beat, then said, "There were no hugs. Or kisses. That I remember of."

John grinned. "Yeah, but it's not too late to remedy that, is it?"

Sherlock stared some more, then leaned in and brushed his lips against John's cheek, slowly, before pulling away an inch.

"Tickles," he murmured, sounding a tad dazed, making the doctor laugh.

"Sorry," the man said, running a damp hand in the detective's hair. "Means we'll have to do it properly after I've shaved the beard off."

Sherlock flushed, and nodded. "If you'd like. But it suits you."

John stretched back, looking pleased with himself at the flattery. "Why, thank you. Though right now I don't exactly associate good memories with it."

Sherlock nodded again in understanding.

After a moment of silence, John spoke again. "I think it'd be best to get out now, or I'll fall asleep in this perfect bath you drew for me."

Sherlock preened a bit at the praise, happy he had helped John relax, and helped him drain the tub and rinse suds of soap from his body. He tied a towel around his right knee so the water wouldn't drip down his cast, then took the robe hanging behind the door and left it on the now vacant chair as he helped the doctor stand, carefully looking away from his body as he stood on the bathroom mat, dripping water. Then he helped him slip his arms in the robe, tying the sash on his front and handing his crutches back.

"Let's get you to bed, then. You can sleep in mine, I'll take the couch," Sherlock told John as he towelled his hair dry and patted his shoulders like an apprehensive mother.

But John shook his head. "Actually... I'd like to share. If- if you wouldn't mind. I've missed you, and I know how you feel. When you came back I wanted to get my arms around you and never let go, but... You know how that went," he sighed. "So, if that's how you feel now, I... Wouldn't mind you never letting go."

Sherlock's hands froze on John's shoulders, and looked down at the doctor, shyly.

"You mean that?"

John smiled and nodded. "'Course I mean it."

Sherlock was reminded of the day John has told him he was his best friend. He flushed and smiled, and nodded in agreement.

"It will definitely make it easier to come and help you if you need me," Sherlock said with a smile, trying to hide how excited he was by the prospect.

John laughed and didn't reply, sure to have caught on Sherlock's fibbing about his reasons for sharing a bed.

Together they slowly hobbled down the hall to Sherlock's room, and once there Sherlock went to retrieve some of his clothes for John. The man removed his wet pants and let them fall on the floor, kicking them away with his good foot, and looked at the t-shirt and y-front pants Sherlock had got him.

"Oh, no Gucci shirt?" he teased, and Sherlock flushed.

"You wouldn't fit in my Gucci shirts," he pointed out with a roll of his eyes that had John giggling.

The doctor slid his arms out from the robe, still tied to his waist, and put on the t-shirt, at least two sizes too small and pulling taut against his muscles. Sherlock tried not to stare and blush at how the grey fabric stretched to show John's well defined chest, from the dip of his navel to the points of his nipples.

"I'll make sure to have Mycroft deliver me some clothes," John said. "I'm afraid I'll loosen this one."

Sherlock waved a hand. "It's just to sleep, it's not a problem. I won't miss it and you won't be sleeping naked. I can get you trousers, too, but they'd be long and ill fitting around the cast..."

John shook his head. "Nah, that's fine. I prefer it this way. Thank God it's not summer yet, but it's not so cold I'll have to wear trousers, either," he said as he turned the pants around in his hands, a bemused smile on his lips. "These are... Cute," he said, lifting the garment to show Sherlock the bee printed on the crotch.

"Oh my God," Sherlock blushed, staring at the offending fabric. "Now I remember why I never wear them-- they were a present from mummy," he said, covering his face with his palms. "I'll-- I'll just get you-"

"No, no, it's fine," John laughed. "they're cute. I'd like to see you in them," he added, his voice suddenly dropping an octave.

Sherlock swallowed the excess saliva in his mouth and jerked his head in an uneven nod.

"I'll... Get my pyjamas then," he said, going to sit on the other side of the room, digging clothes out of a drawer and quickly changing while John put the underwear on.

Then, after a quick trip to hang the wet robe back in the bathroom, Sherlock returned to find John splayed on the right side of the bed, eyes closed. He had to stop and stare for a moment at the unreal sight before him. It was better than any dream he'd ever had. John looked so peaceful and warm and soft and alive, that Sherlock felt his chest squeeze around his heart, his eyes growing wet for a moment.

"Sherlock?" the doctor called, turning his head to look sleepily at him.

"I'm here. I'm okay, sorry, just... It's a lot," he admitted, going to John's side. "Let's get you under the covers, come on."

John hummed and closed his eyes again, shuffling away from his spot. Sherlock chuckled and pulled the duvet down, then let John roll back to his spot.

He tucked him in lovingly, running a hand in his hair, then moved to his side of the bed and slipped under the covers as well. Knowing he had John's permission, Sherlock scooted closer to the supine man and wrapped his arms around the doctor, his left hand stopping over John's heart to feel its beat.

"I'm here. I'm back. I'm not going anywhere," John said, and listening to each other's breathing, they fell asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Stay tuned, a sweet, smutty, fluffy epilogue is in program!  
> Let me know if you cry, I'll feed on your tears! >:3c
> 
> EDIT: I noticed a few small mistakes, in case you're re-reading this! Sherlock's bee pants are the one Sexlock had made ages ago to go with Reapersun's red pants for John! :)


End file.
